


John Watson: A Complicated Story

by Grizi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Captain John Watson, John Watson's War, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grizi/pseuds/Grizi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I was trying to come up with some of John Watson's history because we really don't know a whole lot about him. Hell, we don't know a whole hell of a lot about Sherlock's if truth be told! But in trying to figure out why John Watson is who he is, I came up with this little nugget. To me, it explains some things...it might not to you yet, but hopefully as this story grows and progresses, it will all make sense!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victoria Cross

“John?” Sherlock asked, lifting the box from the drawer of John’s desk, “What’s this?”

 _“Shit!”_ thought John.  He knew he could get upset at Sherlock going through his things again, but what was the point.  And he thought he’d put that piece of junk in storage with the rest of his stuff from Afghanistan.

                “It’s nothing,” he said weakly.  He also knew there was no point in trying to grab the medal box out of Sherlock’s hand.  If he tried, it would just make him more curious as to the meaning behind it.

                “This is a Victorian Cross,” Sherlock said without opening the box.  Leave it Sherlock to know what it was without even looking at it, “For most conspicuous bravery or some daring or pre-eminent act of valour or self-sacrifice, or extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy.”

                “Yes,” John said stiffly.

                Sherlock shot him a look.  John was completely closed off, shut down.  ‘ _Bad memories.  Well, it was in war that John got the medal…Obvious_ ,’ Sherlock thought.  The way John hunched in on himself, Sherlock could see there was a story. _‘It’s a painful story._ _Obvious,’_ he thought again, _‘Think, Sherlock!’_ But while he had been able to deduce John’s life within moments of meeting him, this was a conundrum.  John was obviously hurting, obviously did not want anyone to know he had received one of the highest awards in the nation, and very obviously did not want to talk about it. _‘Obvious!!!’_   It didn’t stop him from asking.

                “What happened?”

                John’s entire body stiffened at the question.  He wrapped his arms around himself and started stuttering, “I-I…Well, I-I…I was severely wounded during a b-bombing in Af-afghanistan…I-I…l-led the evacuation of-of over f-fifty p-patients b-before the r-roof c-c-collapsed.”

                John looked up at Sherlock and the tears began to flow before either of them knew what was going on.  Sherlock dropped the box on the desk, stepped toward John and wrapped his arms around the older man.  John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and clung to him as he sobbed.  Sherlock stood silently holding him until John loosened his grip.

John stepped back and turned away to wipe his face, obviously embarrassed by his outburst.  Sherlock turned away to give him a moment and picked the VC back up.  He opened the box to actually look at the medal.

The decoration was a bronze cross bearing the crown of Saint Edward surmounted by a lion, and the inscription FOR VALOUR.  The cross was suspended by a ring from a [seriffed](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serif) "V" to a bar ornamented with laurel leaves, through which the ribbon passed. The reverse of the suspension bar was engraved with the John's name, rank, number and unit. On the reverse of the medal was a circular panel on which the date of the act for which it was awarded was engraved in the center.  It was by no means a beautiful medal, but it represented a beautiful act that had _obviously_ cost John more than his commission with the Army.

“Can you tell me about it?” Sherlock asked gently, turning back to John, seeing he had regained some of his composure.  If it had been anyone else, he knew he would have been blunter, but he could see that John was already on edge.  He handed the medal to John as he passed him and went to sit in his chair.  John followed suit.  He handed the box back to Sherlock as he sat.  He sat silently for so long that Sherlock thought he wasn’t going to say anything.  Just when Sherlock was about ready let the matter go, John started talking, his eyes glued to the Victoria Cross in Sherlock's hand.

“I-It was 2009, s-spring, I think,” John stammered, “I was working the mid-shift, doing rounds in a hospital near K-kabul when it was bombed.  I-I t-took a piece of shrapnel through the shoulder.  Destroyed most of the rotator cuff and dislocated it.  We had about fifty or so guys in hospital recovering from everything from surgery for in-grown toenail to one guy who’d stepped on a damned mine.  I coordinated efforts to evacuate patients.  There was fire everywhere.  A couple of beams had already fallen and it looked like the rest of the roof was going to collapse.  The building was on fire and falling down around us.  The nurses and orderlies who had remained behind with me were trying to get me to evacuate when I-I heard-heard Andrew calling for help.”

John paused again.   _‘Andrew?’_ Sherlock was stunned.  The way John had said the name had shown that the other man had been very important to him, _‘How important?’_ he asked himself.  He could see John’s shoulders shake with silent sobs as he tried to formulate the rest of the story.

“He was stuck under a beam,” John continued, “I pulled away from the orderlies who were trying to direct me out of the building…And-Andrew saw me…He kept c-calling my name, asking me to help, beg-begging me to save him…B-before I could…Before I could get to him, the entire roof collapsed right in front of me...I mean, l-literally,” he said, finally looking up at Sherlock, “I-if I had taken two more steps…m-moved just a little f-faster, I’d b-be dead along with Andrew.  Harry’d be holding th-that VC, n-not you.”

The pain was so intense in John’s eyes that Sherlock had to turn away.  It hurt him to look at John.  He felt his heart tighten in pain.  He hadn’t had a chance with John. John was in love with a dead man. _‘How does one compete with a dead man?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Victoria Cross is a real British medal. It is the highest honor a soldier can get, much like the Congressional Medal of Honor here in the US (only even harder to get!) The paragraph describing it is almost literally straight from Wikipedia. I apologize if someone is offended by that, but I needed to give an accurate description of it...just a me kind of thing.


	2. The Story of Andrew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't set out to create an OC for this fandom. But my muse is at fault, I swear! Apparently, the story of Andrew must be told and since I am not one to argue with such a wonderful muse who is willing to give me such wonderful ideas, I am doing as bade. Andrew IS essential to this story...if only to move the story along to a point where we'll all be happy. Enjoy! Please read and respond! I love reviews...and so does DocWatson!

He heard John’s cry from the sitting room. He’d been waiting for it, waiting for the nightmare to start. What with John telling the story of how he’d earned the VC, Sherlock knew that it was only a matter of time within the time frame of the night until John’s subconscious caught up to him and replayed those horrible memories for him.  It had been that way since John had moved in with him.  If something traumatic, or untoward, or frightening had happened that in some way, any way reminded John of that time, the nightmares would come.  They had gotten fewer and farther between in the last few weeks, but this was a special circumstance.  This time, Sherlock had created this nightmare…for the both of them.

 _‘John is in love with another man,’_ he thought once again.  Granted, that man was dead, but didn’t that just make it worse?  There was no competing with the ghost of an ex-lover.  The ex-lover would win every time.  He would know.

“No! Please!” he heard John yell, “Please! Let me help him!”

The nightmare was ramping up.  Sherlock sighed and heaved himself out of his chair to head upstairs to John’s room.  Hurting or not, brooding or not, he was still John’s friend and could at least help him through the aftermath of the nightmare.  His foot was on the bottom step of the flight when he heard John wail.

“Sherlock!” John screamed with such agony.  Sherlock bolted up the steps and opened the door to see John sitting up in bed, eyes wide, sweat pouring down his face and naked chest. _‘When did he start sleeping without a shirt on?”_ came the unbidden thought to Sherlock’s brain before he focused on the fear in his friend’s eyes.

“I’m here,” Sherlock said gently, walking toward the chair in the corner of John’s room, “You alright?”

“N-no,” John admitted shakily lowering his eyes to his lap, “I-it was a bad one this time.”

“Want to talk about it?” Sherlock asked without thinking.  When had he become so concerned with John’s emotions? With his dreams?  Why was he even interested since it was obvious John had had a dream about Andrew’s death?

“About the bombing in Kabul,” John said shortly, obviously reticent to talk about it.  “Not-not anything really different…it’s just always bad.”

Sherlock gave the top of John’s head a look.  Just his voice told Sherlock that it was a lie.  John refused to lift his head, refused to look him in the eye.  Sherlock wanted to call him out on it, but he really wasn’t sure he wanted to know what had John so upset…especially if it was Andrew.  He felt the stab in his chest when John looked up, his eyes sharp with buried pain.  Sherlock almost jumped when John started the story.

_I had never believed in love at first sight.  I’d never even believed in love at second or third sight, especially if that love was for another man.  And it wasn’t until weeks and weeks after I’d met Captain Andrew Hughes that I had realized that that was exactly what it had been all the time._

_When Captain Hughes had first walked on to the ward, it was to find one of the soldiers that had been in his command.  I had the unfortunate duty of telling the good Captain that his mate had passed the night before due to complications with his injury.  Hughes didn’t cry.  He didn’t get angry.  He had simply laid himself down on the bed that had once been his friend’s and curled into a ball._

_“Captain,” I said quietly, getting down on his level and trying to catch his eye, “how can I help?”_

_Hughes had grabbed my hand and just held it, processing the grief that was obviously destroying his ability to function at the moment.  I grabbed the chair next to the bed and sat.  The captain closed his eyes and held on to my hand like a life line._

_Meanwhile, I observed the man.  He was no more than six feet tall and looked like he weighed all of 12 stone.  His dark, wavy hair had grown long enough to actually fall over his brow as he lay on the bed.  The need to brush the hair off Hughes’ brow was so strong that I moved my hand to do so before I realized what I’d done.  I stopped only moments before actually touching him, appalled at my thoughts about how beautiful this man was.  I pulled my hand back and sat away from him only an instant before the captain opened his eyes._

_When the captain opened his eyes, I gasped.  The man’s eyes were one of the most intense colors I had ever seen.  I first thought they were blue, but as the captain smiled, they seemed grey.  He looked down at our connected hands and brushed his thumb over the back of my hand almost lovingly.  When he looked back up into my eyes, he released my hand.  I let the breath out of my lungs that I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding._

_“Thanks, Doc,” Hughes said with a small smile in return, “Just needed a minute.”_

_“Not a problem, Captain,” I replied, “I really am sorry for your loss.  You must have been close.”_

_“Thanks, but not really.  Morris was a good bloke,” the captain said, “He just was a pain in the ass more than anything else.  But he saved four guys jumping in front of that sniper…stupid git.”_

_I smiled slightly and nodded.  I knew guys like that myself…good guys who just irritated the hell out of you._

_“Well,” Hughes said with a brighter smile, “I guess I’ll be off.  Gotta let the guys know what’s up.  We’re shipping out in two days to parts unknown,” he offered his hand to me again and I took the handshake, “Maybe we could get a drink when I get back?”_

_I don’t know what came over me, other than I really wanted to see this guy again.  So I nodded, “That’d be nice.”_

_With that, Captain Andrews released my hand again and headed toward the ward door with a little wave back at me._

_That was how it began.  Over the next few weeks, Andrew and I had met for drinks any time he was in the vicinity.  Quite often, we were in a group with his company, the 7 th Armoured Brigade.  I was always the quiet one in the group and quite often got ribbing from Hughes’ buddies that I needed to loosen up more.  They always laughed harder when someone said that._

_After a month of drinks and partying, Andrew asked me to dinner.  I thought nothing of it.    We were mates, friends.  We’d been to dinner together several times, but this time Andrew had made it obvious that he was interested in more than dinner.  Again, knowing what I suspected of Andrew, I still accepted._

_In all the time we’d had known each other, I had never indicated to Andrew that I was gay.  Yet, I knew that just the fact that I was spending every moment I could with Andrew when Andrew was around and worried about Andrew whenever the 7 th headed out, I knew I cared more about Andrew than a bloke should for his mate._

_Our dinner had gone well.  I had been very tense at the start, knowing that Andrew was more interested in me than I was in him, but Andrew had calmed my nerves.  He helped me relax and actually start to enjoy our date.  Once I relaxed and started to enjoy myself, Andrew admitted to me that he had been attracted to me the moment that we’d met.  I stammered and stuttered as I was known to do, but I finally admitted that I had been attracted to him as well.  However, I insisted that I was not looking for anything but friendship from Andrew.  Andrew seemed disappointed, but he told me he understood._

_While we drove back to base, Andrew was quiet.  I figured I had hurt him and he was trying to figure out a way to end our relationship politely._

_We got back to my quarters and Andrew asked to come in.  I allowed it, hoping he wasn’t going to end our friendship because I didn’t want more.  However, the moment we walked in the door, Andrew shoved me up against the door and kissed me.  At first, I stood stock still, completely in shock that he would kiss me after what I’d said, but then I felt the thrill of the kiss deep in my groin.  I’d never felt this strongly with a single kiss with a woman.  I knew the instant I started kissing him back that I had been lying to myself all along.  We spent the night together.  Andrew knew that I was a virgin, as far as a man can be with another man anyway, so we’d messed around, gave each other hand jobs.  Andrew had gone down on me and given me head like no other woman had ever done._

_Andrew’s unit was sent back out the next morning.  And when he came back to me, he had been injured.  The injuries hadn’t been serious, but were enough to keep Andrew in hospital for observation for a few days.  Andrew was supposed to be getting out of hospital and we were going to have our first night together.  I had even begun to look forward to it.  I’d prepared myself to be with a man.  I was actually overjoyed that he and I were going to be together._

_But then the bombs came… And Andrew died._


	3. Replacement

Sherlock watched as John came back to himself.  He saw John’s features change from gentle nostalgia to sadness through to fear as he looked at Sherlock.

_‘Fear?’_ Sherlock thought, _‘Fear of what?’_   Why would John be afraid?  Sherlock ran John’s monologue through his mind again.  Suddenly, he understood.  And suddenly, he was angry.  He knew why John was afraid.  He suddenly knew that John had been in love with someone who he had looked like.  He had become nothing more than a substitution for the man John had loved.  A wave of anger and…jealousy washed over him.  The fact that he was jealous angered him more than the realization that John didn’t love him.

“Sherlock,” John said hesitantly, “Please.”

“I don’t want your explanation, John,” he snapped out bitterly, “I get it.”

“No, Sherlock,” John said, reaching out for him, “You don’t.”

“I do,” Sherlock said, standing stiffly, turning to go.

John scrambled out of bed, grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and turned him.

“No, Sherlock,” John said angrily, grabbing the lapels of Sherlock’s robe, “You really don’t!”

John pulled Sherlock into a kiss, crushing his lips against the taller man’s mouth.  Sherlock stood still in complete shock.  John was kissing him.  John was kissing him!  He had always expected that if he and John would ever kiss that he’d be the one to initiate the action.  Just as he was about to respond happily, joyfully, passionately, even, John pulled away angrily.

 

It had not been what he had hoped.  He had hoped that Sherlock would see the kiss as a confession of his feelings.  He had hoped that Sherlock would respond in kind.  But Sherlock hadn’t responded at all.  He’d done nothing to indicate that his feelings came close to matching John’s.  John turned away, unable to look at him, embarrassed that he’d been as forward as he had.

John knew he hadn’t really explained.  He hadn’t told Sherlock the reason the dream had disturbed him, hadn’t told Sherlock the whole story.  He hadn’t been able to tell Sherlock that it was Sherlock’s face in the nightmare.  The devastation that John faced nightly since his return from Afghanistan had become more horrific to him when it was Sherlock who was buried under the burning beam; when it was Sherlock who begged him to save him; when it had been Sherlock who he had seen crushed under the rubble of the hospital roof.  How could he explain why the dream had disturbed him so much when he was exactly sure what it all meant?

 

Sherlock couldn’t look at John almost as much as John couldn’t look at him.

“What was that?” Sherlock asked dejectedly.  He knew he hadn’t been Andrew, so the kiss had not affected John the way it had begun to affect him.  Sherlock’s heart crumbled in pain.  He didn’t know how to react or what to say.  It was definitely a first for him, and it made him angry that he should be so disturbed.

“Sherlock, I-”

“No, John,” Sherlock interrupted, the hurt and anger boiling to the surface.  He worked so hard to keep the emotions in check and he was not succeeding at this moment. “I really don’t want to know!”

“Sherlock,” John tried again, “Please listen!”

“Why?” Sherlock said angrily, turning back to face John, “Why should I, John?  You’ve made it painfully obvious that I’m not who you want!  Why would I want to hear your explanations?”

“How can you say that?” John asked incredulously, “Honestly, Sherlock!  Tell me how you can think that?”

Sherlock couldn’t do it any longer.  He’d been friends with John for a little over a year now.  He had known the moment he’d met John that there would be no other man in his life.  But to answer John’s questions would be to submit himself to the humiliation of being second best.  He strove to be the best at everything all the time.  But he would never be anything but second best in John’s heart.  He couldn’t stand that.  And yet, he felt the answer bubbling up to the surface before he could stop it.

“You only think you want me, John,” he said sadly, “But you only see me as a poor substitute for the first man you loved.”

He looked at John sadly.  He saw the wonderment on John’s face and was hard pressed to deduce the meaning for it.  The look changed to determination.

“I can do better,” John said roughly as he pushed Sherlock up against the bedroom door and kissed him again.

Sherlock’s faculties were a little more aware this time and instead of hesitating as he had before, he accepted and responded to the kiss.  He knew it was desperation on his part.  He wanted John to want him as much as he wanted John.  He didn’t dare think of love, as much as his heart cried for it.  He responded to John’s kisses as he knew this would be the last time John ever kissed him and he wanted something to remember.

John pushed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth as he pushed his body into him.  Sherlock pushed back and returned the kiss with as much passion as he could muster.  But his mind could not push Andrew out.  He stood between them as solidly as if he were actually physically there.  Sherlock shoved John away suddenly.

“No!” he yelled as he pulled the door open, “I won’t be his replacement!”

He ran away to his room, running from the hurt that filled his heart, ignoring John’s pleas to wait and to just listen.  He ran to his room as if the specter of Andrew was gnashing at his heels.  He slammed the door to his room, locking it behind him.  He leaned back on the locked door and slid down to the floor, the tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed running down his face.


	4. Resolution

In the cold light of day, it all looked like crap. 

He was pretty sure he’d screwed up his friendship with Sherlock.  Sherlock had admitted months ago that he was gay.  John had insisted from the time they met that there was no interest.  However, he had finally stopped arguing with people when they stated that Sherlock and he were a couple.  He’d come to the conclusion that there was no point.

What had hurt most the night before was Sherlock’s rejection.  He had thought for weeks that Sherlock was interested in him.  He had even thought to do or say something to Sherlock about it, but it had never been “the right time”.  He looked in the little beveled mirror above his dresser as he brushed his hair.

“Well,” he said to himself, “no time like the present, eh?”

He grimaced at himself in the mirror and headed downstairs to find Sherlock.  He’d known Sherlock was home if only because he’d been composing melancholy songs since about 8 am.

When he walked into the parlor, the music stopped.  Sherlock put the violin down gently before he turned to face John.  The anguish in the man’s eyes brought tears to his.

“Sherlock,” John said on a mere whisper.

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned to face the window.

“I-I can’t, John,” he said sadly.

John was at a loss for a moment. But he knew that he needed to fix whatever misconception Sherlock had found in the middle of the night.  They would not be able to live like this with the tension that was so palpable you could cut it with a knife.

“You will,” John said forcefully, striding up to Sherlock.  He grabbed his shoulder and turned him to look him full in the face. “You will listen to what I have to say…ALL I have to say.  If, at the end of that you still can’t…can’t whatever…live with me, talk to me, love me…then I’ll find a place to go…But you have to listen to everything I say to you.  Can you do that for me, Sherlock? Can you listen to me for once?”

 

All Sherlock could do was nod.  John had asked him to love him.  It was all he had heard in that whole tirade, but it had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever hear, John wanted him to love him!  John walked to his chair and sat, indicating that Sherlock should do the same.  He sat automatically.

“Focus, Sherlock,” John said suddenly, “Hear what I have to say.  Don’t go off on a tangent.  I think it’s why things went the way they did last night.”

Sherlock nodded.  Of course.  They’d both been highly emotionally charged; he with wanting to care for John and John from his nightmare.  There might have been some misunderstanding…even on his part.

“I-I want to thank you for coming to check on me last night after my nightmare,” John said, “I’m-I’m glad you were there.”

Sherlock had promised to listen, so he simply nodded in response.

“I think, however, you misconstrued what my nightmare was about?”

The question was evident, but Sherlock had agreed not to interrupt.  He just stared at John, the hurt and jealousy of the previous evening starting to rear its ugly head again.

“Sherlock,” John said, interrupting his thoughts, “It isn’t what you think.”

He couldn’t stand it, “Not what I think?  How could it not be that?  You’d just told me earlier in the day about the man you were in love with and then you had a nightmare about him.  What’s to misconstrue about that?”

 

“Look, can you just listen for a moment longer, please?” John asked roughly.  When Sherlock nodded, he continued, “Andrew was a sweet man.  He was good looking, which until him had never meant anything to me.  I’d never even given another man a second look, but there was something about him that I was so drawn to.  He wooed me in such a way that I never really even realized what was happening.  He made me more aware of who I am, but I knew that while he might take my virginity, he would not be forever.

“When I met you, I was shocked at how similar the two of you were in looks,” John said, noticing the tightness in Sherlock’s jaw, “But that is as far as it went.  Andrew was as dumb as a brick.  He had no interests other than beer and football and usually drinking one while he was watching the other.  I’ve never had any interest in that.  He had an adventurous spirit, but it would never include me, because he was entrenched in the Army even more than I was.  He preferred to be on the front lines, taking guys out instead of saving their lives.

“Andrew’s kisses that first night knocked me out of my socks.  I’d never been kissed by a man, but it felt so right.  I’d never been touched by someone who knew so instinctively what I needed or wanted.  But I don’t know that I was in love with him.  I think I was more in ‘curiosity’ with him.  I enjoyed our one evening together, but it wasn’t enough for me to say I loved him.  But when I got back home, I couldn’t get his kisses out of my mind.  I couldn’t get the way his hands would touch me out of my mind.  I’ve searched for a woman to make me feel the things he made me feel since I got home.  But as with him, I never found the emotional connection that I wanted; that I thought had started with him.”

 “If you didn’t love him, why does he haunt your nightmares?” Sherlock asked dejectedly, bringing his head back up to look John in the eye.

John just shook his head and smiled slightly.  It had all become so obvious to him now.  Sherlock had been jealous of Andrew the night before.  He was jealous even now.

“He’s dead, Sherlock,” John said tightly, “You’re not.  And that’s why I woke up screaming.”

He could see that all of Sherlock’s thought processes stopped momentarily.  John knew that if Sherlock hadn’t been scrambling to make sense of what he’d had said, he probably would have doubled over in pain.

“I have a simple question for you that should clear up this whole misunderstanding,” John said calmly.

Sherlock looked at him and nodded.

“Whose name did I scream at the end of my nightmare?”

Sherlock tilted his head and closed his eyes for a moment.  Suddenly, they popped open.  All jealousy and pain was gone.  Instead, there was wonderment and awe in Sherlock’s face that John had never seen.

“Whose?” John asked again, with a gentle smile.

“Mine,” Sherlock said softly.

“Right,” John responded with a bigger smile, “Yours.  I didn’t dream of Andrew last night…haven’t for a while.  Usually, my nightmares are memories of my time in Afghanistan.  Last night, I was back there.  But instead of Andrew under that beam calling my name and begging me for help, it was you.

Sherlock just stared at him, not responding.

“I couldn’t get to you as hard as I tried,” John said, sadly, feeling every bit of pain from the night before, “Every step I took put you yards away…When the roof collapsed, I wished in that moment I’d been crushed as well…With Andrew, I never felt that, Sherlock,” he said, tears gathering in his eyes, “with Andrew dying, whether the real thing or the continuous nightmares, I never wanted to die at the loss of him…It was so different with you.”

He felt the single tear slip down his face.  Before he could reach up to wipe it away, Sherlock was on his knees in front of him, his big thumb wiping the wetness away.  John looked in Sherlock’s eyes.  What he’d wanted to see the night before was there now.

“Why were you so frightened when I walked in the room?” Sherlock asked quietly, his other hand sliding up to John’s face to wipe away another tear.

“Because I was afraid you’d not believe me if I told you I thought I was falling in love with you,” John said softly.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. The tenderness and comfort that John had needed the night before were in that kiss, but just below the surface, he could feel the contained passion.  John kissed him back fervently, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock groaned and John took advantage and darted his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.  Suddenly, the dam burst and every ounce of passion and lust Sherlock felt came flowing out to John.  Sherlock pulled John down onto the floor with him.  John found himself sprawled across his roommate, their erections pressing tightly against each other.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.  Both men paused in their kissing, hands still fervently searching each other.

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway, “that nice Detective Inspector is downstairs.  He said he needs to talk to you."

Sherlock smirked at John. John smiled at Sherlock.  They both looked at Mrs. Hudson and grinned.  Mrs. Hudson smiled back, happy that her boys had finally made up.

“We’ll be right there, Mrs. Hudson,” John smiled.

She nodded and left.  John looked down in Sherlock’s face with a cheeky grin.

“Well, people will talk now.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock returned, “but now it won’t be just rumor!”

John just laughed, leaned down for another quick kiss and moved to roll away.

Sherlock rolled with him, holding John to him.

“John-”he started to say.

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

Sherlock just smirked and nodded as he allowed John to pull himself up off the floor.

“Come, John,” Sherlock said as he bounced up onto his feet effortlessly, “Seems the game is afoot!”

John shook his head and laughed again, “What does that even mean?”

Sherlock just chuckled and headed down the stair to Lestrade’s car, John close at his heels.


End file.
